Vapor Trail Part II: The Race

I'm not going to lie and say that I wasn't nervous for this race. I was probably the most nervous that I've been in years. I knew it was going to be very hard. I tried to relax the day before the race, but it didn't really work. We left our house casually Saturday morning and drove down to Salida. The place Mrs. Geology found on VRBO was nice, and a quick drive from downtown where all the stuff was happening. As I was eating lunch, I realized that I had left the reservoir for my pack in the fridge... at home. I panicked for a second and then realized that I am an adult with money and went and bought a new one at an outdoor shop downtown. I checked Absolute Bikes first, but they didn't have any 3 L reservoirs, so they sent me to the local outdoor outfitters. Minor crisis averted. After I set my bike up, I settled in for the all-important pre-Vapor nap.

The full Vapor Trail 125 set up.

The race start came sooner than I thought it would. The next thing I new, I was sitting on the F Street bridge next to Kerkove about to ride off into the night. The start was the most neutral neutral start I've ever been in. We were actually going at a conversational pace for the first half hour of the race. As we settled into the first climb up to Blanks Cabin I hit what I thought would be my pace for the rest of the night and the next day.

Waiting. Photo courtesy of Mrs. Geology.

The section of the Colorado Trail went well. I walked some of the steeper climbs, trying to stick to Jeff's rule of not sweating for the first four hours. With the 28t ring on my XX1 setup it wasn't that hard, Aside: I'll probably end up sticking with that chainring instead of going back to a 30t since I spend more time in the middle of the cassette with it. I'm too much of a spinner now. Anyway, my Mach 429c was performing brilliantly and my dual Light and Motion Stella 500s were keeping me pointing in the right direction. I had replaced the stock two-cell batteries with slightly larger three-cell batteries so the light on my bar was good for something like 18 hours on low, which was where I had it parked. The light on my head gave me a little over four hours on high, and it was only on for parts where I actually needed to see (i.e. singletrack). Plus, I had the two spare two-cell batteries in my pack just in case. Other than my rear blinky light (which went out before I got to the Cascade aid station), that's all the lighting I was carrying.

The Colorado Trail section went a bit quicker than I expected. I really love riding technical singletrack at night (I can thank the Weiser's, Uncle Don, and Zach for that love), and that section of the CT was some of the best night riding singletrack I've ever done. I'll have to go back and enjoy it sometime. I rolled into the Cascade aid station and found it positively buzzing with activity. About a dozen folks alternating between huddling around a fire to ward off the chill and helping racers with bottles and hydration reservoirs, and an equal number of racers enjoying a hot cup of coffee or a breakfast burrito in the early morning hours. I don't remember exactly when I rolled in, but it was definitely after 1 AM. Thanks to those folks who stayed up probably all night helping racers out. At the aid station, I refilled my water and headed out into the long night. I really had no idea what lie ahead of me.

After the hike-a-bike/scramble over the new landslide, I hooked up with Carey Lowery. We rode the rest of the night together. I don't know what I was thinking, but that climb to the Alpine Tunnel was long. Strava says that it was 17 miles, but goddamn if that wasn't the longest 17 mile climb I've ever done. I don't know whether it was the dark, or the lack of grade, but it felt like we climbed forever. Once we got to Hancock (I think), we followed a sign that said "Alpine Tunnel Trailhead: 5 mi." Ok, five more miles of climbing. When we got to the Alpine Tunnel Trailhead, it said "Alpine Tunnel: 3 mi." Ok, three more miles of climbing. Finally we're getting somewhere. Then I saw a few lights above us and knew we were there. We dismounted and started our hike-a-bike over the tunnel. I was feeling good. I had maintained a good pace and kept my cadence up the entire way up the climb, and I was making a good pace walking, which I'm not typically good at. Once we topped out at Alpine Pass, I was eager to get back on my bike. I actually cleaned most of the sketchy, brush covered (an odd thing for being above treeline) descent back down to the old railroad grade, and we were soon bombing down the road. After a surprise visit to Aid Station 1.5 (thank you to the folks who camped up in the high country to cook bacon and make coffee for a bunch of crazies... I never got your names, but thank you) with it's amazing coffee and bacon, we started heading up Tomichi Pass. Now that I'm looking at the race with the clarity of hindsight, this is where things started to unravel. We gained the pass as the slightest hint of color was returning to the eastern horizon, As Carey and Kip got their pictures taken by the moto guy (one of the race promoters), I watch the lights in the distance dancing up the hulking dark mass that is Granite Mountain.

While I had led our little group over Alpine Pass, I struggled to maintain the walking pace that Carey set going up Tomichi Pass. I struggled even more up Granite Mountain. After our first major stop and the break of down Carey and Kip left me behind. I couldn't keep pace with them walking up this mountain. I don't know how long it took, but I eventually reached the top. I sat up their in the early morning cold and took it all in. The most important thing I had to do now was eat food. I had a one hour plus descent ahead of me.

Sunrise. 12.5k ft. Canyon Creek Trail.

Obligatory Granite Mountain selfie.

The descent is now a blur of rough alpine singletrack and smooth, wooded trail. The alpine part went by way too quickly, but the rest of the trail was pretty much perfect Colorado singletrack filled with natural jumps, things to manual, and high-speed corners. Other than the steep climb near the end, I honestly don't remember much of it.

I will admit that I miscalculated my nutrition for this. I should have taken two more bags of drink mix with me so I could refill with the stuff I wanted at Snowblind. A guy that I thought looked like the great Dave Wiens was there and lubed my chain (turns out it was Dave Wiens). And I turned down a few offers for pancakes because of the presence of peanut butter on the table (see my previous post). I refilled my reservoir, and made a mix with some non-CarboRocket drink mix and set off. Once I hit Old Monarch Pass Road I could instantly tell that something wasn't right. the non-CarboRocket drink mix wasn't doing it, and my legs were reduced to tubes of jelly. I walked the last mile of the road, and every single uphill of the short section of singletrack between the top of Old Monarch Pass and the new Monarch Pass aid station. Everything had come undone, and the amount of coke (none) and lack of food at the aid station did not help fix it. I cried somewhere between the walking and getting into my car. Maybe twice. I honestly don't remember. I stayed awake just long enough to get off Monarch Pass as Mrs. Geology drove me back home. As soon as we hit the flats, I was asleep. Race over.

I'm honestly still processing this, so I'll likely write more later. That's all for now.

Vapor Trail Part I: The Preamble

So I did Vapor Trail 125. Well, most of it anyway. Before I go into a detailed account of my race, I'd like to start with this.

A Request for Organizers/Promoters of Endurance XC Races

Over my actually kind of long career of racing, I have had the pleasure to compete in many different races in many different and unique regions of the country. Since my preferred form of cycle-based torture is long endurance races, many of the races I have attended have been supported by aid stations out on course. These aid stations run the gamut of nothing more than a dude with an easy-up in the woods and a bunch of water to a small full-service restaurant and bike shop. Most of them offer some kind of drink mix as well as a number of sweet and salty snacks for racer to gorge themselves on while wondering why they are going to leave the wonderful bounty of food laid out in front of them. A staple of aid station food at most endurance races in the peanut butter and jelly sandwich (PB & J hereon). The PB & J is, after all, a perfect source of energy for the trials ahead; it contains an ample amount of nutrients to keep a racer fueled up until the next aid station. Everyone loves a good PB & J mid-race right?

Well, not everyone. I, and probably a decent minority of other endurance racers, have a severe peanut allergy. Severe enough that if you eat your PB & J, then grab a handful of salty tortilla chips, then I come along and grab a handful of the same chips, I am risking going into antiphylactic shock in the woods, miles away from any medical care (and no, an EpiPen is not medical care. The EpiPen is only designed to keep you from dying before you get to the hospital). No, when I see a tray of PB & Js sitting on a food table at an aid station, it means that I'm not getting any food at that aid station. This makes it difficult to plan a nutrition strategy at races where you are limited to a certain number/size of drop bags.

My request is simple. I don't want to eliminate the PB & J from aid station food menus, I just want race promoters to remind their aid station volunteers to be cognizant of this very dangerous food allergy and to do their best to keep the PB & Js separate from the rest of the food. Maybe even put them on a separate table?

That's all... I'll be back later with Part II of my Vapor Trail story.